Hide and Seek (12 page)

“What did you do?”

“A lot of it is a blur. I do my best not to remember.”

“If you don’t want to talk about it—”

“You have a right to know and it will drive my point home.” Deep inhalation. “He pushed me back and held the gun on me. Then he turned his attention to the car and leaned in. I think he was making sure I had left the keys in the ignition. Truth is, I don’t know what he was thinking. All I know was, he leaned into the car. I could see you in the back and your mother . . . oh, the fear on her face. Something in me gave way.”

“The adrenaline?”

“That was certainly there. I thought my heart was going to combust.”

“You hit him?”

“I kicked the car door closed—on his head. He screamed, swore, and pulled back. He still had the gun. The guy was twice my size. I didn’t think for a moment that I could wrestle the thing from him. I wouldn’t know what do with it if I could. The pain made him close his eyes for a moment. I knew I had to finish this as quickly as possible.”

“The best fight is a fast one.”

“Right. His eyes were closed but that would only last a second then he’d shoot me without thinking. I had no doubt about that. His eyes opened and he lowered his gun hand from his head. I punched him. In the neck. On the carotid artery. I hit him as hard as I could. I got lucky. It did exactly what I hoped it would. It sent a pulse of blood to his head. He swayed and I saw his eyes roll up. That’s when I grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him away from the car and pushed him to the street. I’m ashamed to tell you what else went through my head but I ignored all that. You and Mom were my priority. I got back in the car and sped away.”

“How did you know to do that? I mean, how did you know to punch him there?”

“What? You don’t think your old man knows a few things?”

She remembered grinning. “No.”

“You’re right. You know as part of their training, doctors rotate through the various departments of the hospital. When I was working the emergency room someone brought a man in who had suffered a blow to the neck just like that. It caused a stroke.”

“Is that what happened to the attacker?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Don’t want to know. Knowing won’t remove the trauma.” He leaned to his side and kissed her on the top of the head. “Remember what I said and let’s pray you never have to use it.”

It was the first time Amelia understood that, at times, violence was a necessary evil.

“PLEASE . . .
please . . .” Amelia pleaded. “Don’t hurt me. I’ll do whatever you want. Just tell me. Please don’t hurt me.”

“I like a woman who cooperates,” the large attacker said. His two companions laughed. “So who wants to go first?”

“Just one thing.” This time there was no pleading in her voice. She had only needed the man to relax for a moment. Her father’s simple lessons would not help her much in this situation but the philosophy behind did. Army training would do the rest.

As the man returned his gaze to her she drove the marker pen into his temple. The marker cap was too large and dull to pierce the skin but she delivered it with enough force to cause the skull, thinner at that point than any other place on the head, to release a satisfying crack.

He released her to seize his head. She pushed him back with just enough strength to make him backpedal three steps. She took a long step forward, raised a foot, and drove the heel of her black and white pump into the area just above his knee cap. She heard a snap. The big man screamed and reached for his leg. Before his hands had traveled half the necessary distance, Amelia threw a punch: a long, sweeping punch that carried all her weight. Her fist hit the side of the man’s neck just over the carotid artery. He collapsed like an empty bag.

A hand took her shoulder, but rather than resist she moved with it, turning to face one of the other men. Fury covered his face. Amelia erased it, shoving the marker into the man’s eye. His screams rolled down the alley, joining the loud groans and swearing of his big friend writhing on the alley’s asphalt.

She spun to face the third man, every muscle taut, every neuron firing, her fury in high gear.

The man ran.

Amelia turned to the first attacker. “That’s for Dad,” she said in English.

ANYONE LOOKING AT THE
living room of J. J. and Dr. Tess Rand Bartley might be easily misled. On the wide coffee table, an object twice as old as her twenty-plus years, was an odd mixture of magazines:
Foreign Policy, U.S. News and World Report, Time, Military Times, The Economist,
and
New Mommy.
There were also issues of
American Cyclist, Sports Illustrated,
and
Guns of the World.
There was a well-worn Stephen Bly Western, and a thick tome titled
The Cold War: Reagan the Early Years.
Joining the clutter was a Christian devotional book by Pastor Adam Bridger. Some might assume the news and foreign policy publications belonged to J. J. but they’d be wrong. Those were her interests, that and the
New Mommy
mag.

The apartment in Columbia, South Carolina, was close enough to Fort Jackson to suit J. J.’s needs but a nine-hour drive from her work at the War College in Carlisle Barracks, Pennsylvania. J. J. was often gone and so was she. They valued the time they had together. Fortunately, Tess only traveled to the War College a few times a month to teach a seminar or two.

She walked into the living room with a bowl of Special K in one hand, a cup of decaf coffee in the other. Having the apartment to herself allowed her to be as casual as she wished and she wished to be very casual. She set the coffee down and used the free hand to move the magazines.

She had been at Carlisle Barracks all week doing research, making the most of J. J.’s absence. Today would be different. She had a full schedule of nothing to do. She might read, or she might not; she might go to a tear-jerker movie, or perhaps not; she might nap or eat a chili dog. Having a day with no structure or plans was like a Christmas present.

She scooped a fresh load of cereal into her mouth and the phone rang. She glanced at the clock. Not quite eight o’clock. She snapped up the wireless phone. “Hewwo.” Milk dripped down her chin.

“Tess?”

She swallowed. “Yes. Sorry. I was eating.”

“Something healthy I hope.”

Tess looked at the cereal and the coffee. “Kinda healthy.”

“Kinda? Do I need to come over there and give you pregnancy lessons?”

“Too late, I’m already pregnant.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I do. I’m living within the guidelines the doctor gave me.” She glanced at the coffee again. She had cut way back. J. J. accused her of drinking coffee like a sailor. “Mostly.”

Lucy sighed. “Mostly?” Lucy Medina, a normally bubbly woman, was subdued. Having four children could do that. Tess heard two of her children squealing in the background.

“Are you okay, Lucy? You sound a little off. Kids got you down?”

“Have you seen the news?”

“No. It’s my first real day off this month. I was avoiding the news.” She knew where Lucy was going and reached for the remote control to turn on the fifty-inch television, a set much too large for the room but still not large enough for J. J. He wanted a television he could live in. She pushed the power button and set the cereal down. “What’s up?”

“I saw it on CNN. There are riots in Kalickstan.”

“Kyrgyzstan, Lucy.”

“Isn’t that where . . .” Lucy went into stealth mode. “Isn’t that where the boys are meeting.”

Tess translated the phrase in her head as she switched to the news station:
Isn’t that where our husbands are and are they in danger?
She watched for a moment, sipping her coffee. “I’m not seeing . . . hang on. Here it is.”

The image of rampaging crowds, fires, and battles with police filled the screen. It looked like every other televised riot except it seemed to involve more of the city, at least according to the news report.

Tess chewed her lip. “Can you get a sitter?”

“Sure. My mother is staying with us while Jose travels.”

“Let’s meet at Bernie’s Beans. I could use some more coffee.”

“Decaf, right.”

“Yes, decaf.”

Tess hated decaf.

BERNIE’S BEANS WAS AN
independent coffeehouse owned by a former Ranger who was injured in Iraq, an injury that took his left arm. He had adjusted to the artificial arm enough to be able to whip up fancy coffee drinks faster than any other place in town. The place differed from most coffeehouses in that it had several areas where small groups could gather and chat, usually soldiers or soldiers’ wives. Bernie understood the need for a place where conversations that few could understand could take place.

“You’re glowing,” Lucy said as she walked to an alcove table in the back. Several cushioned chairs dominated the space.

“I think I’m just shiny.” Tess rose and gave Lucy a kiss on her brown cheek. How a woman with four high-octane children could look so lovely this early was beyond her.

“Nonsense. Pregnancy suits you. And twins. Wow, what a blessing.”

“I don’t feel blessed in the early morning. I feel like throwing up.”

Lucy laughed. “I’ve spent my share of time staring down the toilet.”

“Tell me it ends.”

She sat and waved a hand dismissively. “Sure. Any day now.”

“Really?”

“No.”

Bernie approached. Tess had ordered an herbal tea for herself and a mocha for Lucy before she arrived. “Ladies, good to see you again.” Bernie held one cup in the pinchers of his artificial arm and the mocha in the other hand. “Can I get anyone a muffin? I’ve got some fresh blueberry.”

“Me, pick me,” Tess said. “I’m hungry—again. Let’s have two of those.” She looked at Lucy. “You want one?”

“Just one apiece, Bernie. She’s kidding about eating two.”

“I am?”

“Yes, you are.” Lucy sounded firm.

Tess sighed. The moment after Bernie brought the muffins on a plate, Tess shifted to face Lucy better. “Okay, what’s on your mind?”

“You saw the video of the riots, right.”

“I did but I don’t think that affects our guys. They’re there on a training mission and to meet the two new team members. They’re coming home in a couple of days.”

Lucy didn’t looked convinced. “Jose told me there was tension in the country about the air base being there.”

“He’s right. It’s common knowledge. It’s not a new problem, Lucy. The debate about the U.S. base has been going on for years. We pay to be there. And by ‘we’ I mean the United States.”

“But what if they send them into the riots?”

“I don’t think that will happen.” She sipped her tea. Good but not as satisfying as strong coffee. Pregnancy changed her tastes. She wanted almost everything she couldn’t have: fish (mercury poisoning), soft cheeses, caffeine, and alcohol. The last one wasn’t a problem. She had never been a drinker.

“How can you be sure?” Lucy pulled a bit of the muffin from the top.

“Sure? Well, I can’t be sure, but I can tell you it is highly unlikely. Sending soldiers into Kyrgyzstan soil would be a problem. The riots are a problem for the Kyrgyzstan government. They have no reason to go in. No mandate. At some point, the United States may have to move out of the airport but that won’t happen quickly.